


Back From the Dead

by Middle_Earth_Mama



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sad with a Happy Ending, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Middle_Earth_Mama/pseuds/Middle_Earth_Mama
Summary: I am sure this concept has been done before, but I had to do my own take on it. The way Sherlock should have revealed himself to John, and the pain and anguish John experiences at losing his best friend.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Don't be Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516031) by [CarmillaCarmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine). 



> My first Sherlock fic! Just started watching Sherlock, (I know, always late to the party,) and I have never posted anything that wasn't The Hobbit, so I am incredibly nervous! Be gentle with me!

The flat seemed empty, a black void that mirrored the empty darkness that had lived in the doctor's soul. It only made the feelings of loss more real. 

It had been two years, and still John was not over it. The sight of Sherlock standing on the rooftop. Watching Sherlock fall. Watching the life that had brought him purpose, brought him hope, plummet towards the unforgiving earth. 

The sound would haunt him. The sound of a broken voice, lying to John in his last breaths. John knew Sherlock had to have been lying. He'd seen the man in action, knew what he was capable of, and spending all the time they did together, John knew everything up to that point had been real. The deductions. The mystery solving. The criminals. Even Moriarty. A paid actor? How could Sherlock possibly think John would fall for that? 

But maybe he knew John would not fall for it. Maybe he knew John would never believe their time together had been full of lies. Then all of those supposed confessions before the end had been for what purpose? 

John shook his head against the arguments and reasoning he had been obsessing over for the last two years. It would all amount to nothing. No new realization. No closure. Just as it hadn't all the other times. He would think and wonder and obsess until his head hurt and he felt like his heart would burst with the pain. No sense in fixating on this again. He was here in the pursuit of closure, but he doubted now that it would come. 

Things had been.... difficult. Since Sherlock...  
Well, it had been difficult. John spent his days existing in what felt like a shadow world. The details of his current life felt fake, dull around the edges like a hazy dream. Those first few days, he stayed in bed. He stayed in bed and stared blankly into nothing. Greg had dropped by. And Molly. Even Mycroft. But it wasn't until Harry found him and gave him an ear full of talk about self involvement and a waste of a perfectly good doctor who should be spending time saving people instead of feeling sorry for himself that he got up. 

Now, he spent every day the same. He woke up. Showered and dressed. Had his breakfast and went to work. Took care of his patients and came home, where he sat in his chair in his new flat. He hated his new flat. It never felt like his. Never felt like home. Not like where he now stood had.

John looked around his old home. He felt even more as a shadow than ever, looking at the layer of dust over everything. The violin sitting forgotten, abandoned on the chair. He could imagine Sherlock in is chair, hear his voice, see him sitting with his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he worked out the complicated details to his latest case. 

John looked away, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He had known this would be hard, coming here. But after two years, he figured the ache would have been duller. Less sharp and jagged.

It wasn't.

John walked hesitantly through the flat. The kitchen had been untouched, a dirty tea cup sat on the counter. Sherlock's or his, he couldn't be sure, and he didn't think he'd like to know. Probably there were still some sort of body parts in the fridge, but he wasn't about to check. He moved toward Sherlock's room. Pushed the door open and stood there for several minutes. He felt as though he was looking at a ghost. The bed made, dust dulling the colors of the fabric of the duvet. A stack of books on the dresser. John took a few steps forward, ran his hand softly over Sherlock's robe draped over the foot of the bed. 

A sob filled the room, bouncing off the walls and somehow making the room feel more empty. More abandoned. John wiped at the tears he hadn't noticed had escaped down his face. 

No. No, he needed to get out of here. Let them sleep, the ghosts of the past. The flatmate he had admired. Adored. Maybe even-

Stop. It didn't matter. It was time to leave, and he was sure he would never come back to 221b as long as he lived. Too many memories. Too much pain. 

He retreated, holding his breath against the tightening in his chest, the sorrow welling up and threatening to drown him. He couldn't. He couldn't fall apart like this again. He had worked too hard, too long to let this eat him, let it swallow him up again. He reached for the door, hand fumbling for the knob, grasping and shaking until finally he managed to pull the door open. 

John's face fell, draining of all color as he dropped to his knees on the floor. His heart leapt into his throat and he gasped, his lungs failing him as his brain tried fruitlessly to process what he was seeing.  
The man he hated more than any.  
The man he loved more than any.  
“Sh-Sh-” he shook his head, eyes closed and refusing to open again. This had to be some sort of hallucination. A mental breakdown, brought on by being in this place without-

“John?” 

Sherlock's voice. Oh, that voice. That voice that had haunted John's dreams. Deep and rolling and thick, filling the cracks of his heart as it swept him up. A gentle hand sat on his shoulder, and John glanced at it, daring to open one eye as he took in those familiar hands. Hands that had sifted through evidence and helped solve countless crimes. Hands that coaxed beautiful melodies from stringed instruments and steepled gracefully under a pensive face.

“How-” John cleared his throat, blinking rapidly, “how are you here?” 

“Not dead,” Sherlock answered coolly, sounding nearly amused and he moved around John toward his chair. He removed his jacket and threw it casually on the armrest.

John turned his head up and finally dared to look at Sherlock. At the dark curls that framed that face. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, mesmerizing, beautiful eyes full of... amusement?

John could not have ever prepared for the emotions that swept over him.  
Yearning.  
Amazement.  
Shock.  
Elation.  
Heartbreak.  
Anger.

“Two years,” John began dangerously, voice low and shaky, “two years, you let me believe....”  
He put his hand over his mouth and carefully stood, turning away to try to gather himself. When he faced Sherlock again, his eyes were narrowed in fury, his mouth a thin line as he huffed a breath out of his nose. 

“One phone call. One text. One email, something! You could have let me know!”  
John's temper was raising as he stalked toward Sherlock, pointing an accusing finger in the other's face. 

“Do you have any idea-”  
John buried his hands his hair and turned away. Took a few steps. Put his hands on his hips and angrily stepped back towards the detective.

“You could have saved me two whole years of absolute anguish, but you didn't bother.”  
He threw his hands up, letting them drop defeatedly at his sides.

“I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Nobody else matters to the great Sherlock Holmes!” With that, John turned and stormed back to the door. 

“Wait,” a hand slammed the door shut as John began to open it. 

“What the hell for?” John asked, voice low and dangerous as he turned to face Sherlock, who was standing quite close, his arm over John's shoulder holding the door shut. 

“I wanted to tell you. Let you know I was alive.”  
Sherlock's voice was calculating, even. He shook his head lightly.  
“They were watching you. If there was any indication that you were not mourning my death, they would have killed you.”

“Who?” John frowned, clearly confused at this revelation. 

Ah, the mind of the average person. Wasn't it obvious?  
“Moriarty's hit men of course,” he answered shortly, as though he were explaining something simple to an oblivious child.  
“I had to die, John. And if anyone thought for any reason that I had not, you would die. I may not be the best with sentimentality, I am in fact a complete idiot on the subject, or so I've been told, but...” he fidgeted uncomfortably, tugging at his jacket and keeping his eyes on the floor. “I could not have lived with myself if I lost you.”

John swallowed dryly, clearly in shock once again. He glanced at his shoes, as though the answer would be written there, but finally decided after all this time without Sherlock, he better make sure he got the right of their situation before he could decide what to do next. 

“Why, Sherlock?” John asked softly, as though too loud a sound would frighten this conversation into hiding.  
“Why would you risk yourself for me?”

Sherlock met his gaze and raised an eyebrow in amusement.  
“You are better with sentimentality than I. It defies all logic. The most intelligent people always weigh all options, regardless of emotions in order to get a proper view of the pros and cons of each avenue. I could not even try to consider letting you be killed. Why don't you tell me why that is?”

The silence weighed heavily between them, and Sherlock waited for John to sort it all out. The moment he noticed John's breathing pattern had changed, and the man had started to fidget, he couldn't help the arrogant grin that slipped into place only slightly, before he managed to rearrange his features into a look of neutrality.

John took a settling breath, then reached out with shaking fingers towards Sherlock's face.  
“You- you're really here?”  
He hesitated, then pulled his hands away again, uncertainty getting the better of him.

“Obviously, yes,” Sherlock breathed. He saved the doctor the trouble of trying to find courage and took John's hands in his own. He brought them up and placed them on either side of his face, turning to brush his lips over John's palm.  
“I am here.”

John smoothed his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones as a small sob escaped him. He leaned in tentatively, Sherlock meeting him halfway, their lips touching gently, hesitantly, then melding together in earnest. Sherlock's hands were suddenly smoothing over Johns back, pulling him closer and pressing them together tightly. John slid his hands around the back of Sherlock's neck and buried them in his hair, tugging until Sherlock tilted his head, his lips parting as his tongue sought John's. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, letting his body melt into the detective's arms. 

Sherlock pulled back, his eyes wild as he looked at John.  
“What is happening?”

John smirked. “I thought you were supposed to be the brilliant one.”

“I am. I told you, I don't do emotion. Emotions... complicate things. They make you irrational and stupid.”

“Then you are stupid,” John chuckled lightly, then tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair. “I love you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, it's finally done! My first Sherlock fic completed!  
> Hope you like it!

John savored Sherlock's arrogant grin. The haughty look he sometimes gave John when he was pointing out the obvious.

“I know,” Sherlock leaned in, kissing John again briefly before he thought better of his previous statement and figured he better make himself clear.   
“I mean- you know- you know that I do too- that I... love-.”

John nodded jerkily and barely contained his chuckle at Sherlock's unusual inability to articulate.   
“I know Sherlock, shut up.” He grabbed the detective by the front of his shirt and yanked him in close, kissing him in earnest. 

Sherlock recovered quickly. He wrapped his arms around John, pressing their bodies together. The slide of tongues and press of warmth solid against him, he soon found himself overwhelmed. 

Desire was not something Sherlock standardly gave in to. It wasn't something he usually savored or even appreciated. It was typically a nuisance, something to be avoided, or quickly dealt with if it couldn't be helped. 

Yet now, he found himself desperate to drown in it. He shoved John's coat off and scrambled to find the hem of the doctor's shirt. He pulled it up over John's head, removing his mouth from the John's only long enough to yank the offending article off. He slammed their mouths back together, teeth clacking lightly and tongue seeking, finding, curling around John's. Sherlock wanted to devour him. Permeate every hole he had left in John Watson. Fill him in where he had been empty. He had broken John. Punched holes in the man he admired and loved more than any when he left. And he would spend every moment filling those holes. Caressing and kissing every inch, putting the pieces back together. 

John was a bit surprised at Sherlock's intensity. He didn't expect the detective to be quite so passionate, so all consuming. He kissed John like a man dying, a thought John would rather not dwell on. Sherlock was everywhere, his hands roving over chest and back, rubbing over John's shoulders and down his arms. His mouth moved over John's jaw and down his neck, and John let himself be swept up in it, his eyes closing, lips parted as his breathing became more ragged. He fell back into the door behind him, buried his hands in Sherlock's hair, urging him on as he moved down his chest, his tongue swirling over John's nipple. 

John gasped, his hips jerking forward. Sherlock moved his mouth lower, brushed his nose against the hair at John's stomach, let his breath tickle over John's skin. John's legs shook beneath him as Sherlock began working his zipper and suddenly, John couldn't stand any longer. He needed to feel Sherlock's weight on him, feel his skin against him. He grabbed Sherlock's collar, pulled him upright and kissed him again, nearly shoving him through the flat toward the bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom. Where they could chase away the ghosts and shadows. 

Sherlock stumbled as he was urged backwards toward his bedroom door. John refused to break their kiss, and so Sherlock held on to him, attempting to keep from falling backwards until he bumped into his door. He reached back, groping unseeingly for the handle, then threw the door open behind him. 

They stumbled into the room, mouths moving together and hands groping blindly. John broke their kiss and yanked the dusty duvet from the bed, revealing what would suffice as clean sheets. Sherlock's hands dropped and he grabbed John's thighs and pulled him up, slotting their hips together with a low moan. 

John was thrown off by suddenly being lifted from the ground. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist and tightened his grip around strong shoulders as Sherlock tumbled them onto the mattress. 

Sherlock caught himself with hands at the sides of John's head before he could crush the doctor, which John honestly wouldn't have complained about. John reached between them and tried to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, his fingers fumbling and shaking. 

“Oh sod it,” John mumbled, grabbing the two sides of the shirt and he yanked the fabric apart, sending buttons every which way. 

“That was my favorite shirt,” Sherlock rebuked, arching an amused brow at John.

“I'll buy you a new one,” John answered impatiently as he leaned up, all lips and tongue as he quested to taste every inch of Sherlock's skin, his hands pushing the shirt down Sherlock's arms until the detective had to lean back and sit up to finish removing it. 

Sherlock set a firm hand on John's chest, easing him back and effectively pushing the fire coursing through the doctor back to a steady burn. He leaned down and kissed John again, slower, less frantically, but deeper, like he was trying to savor the taste. Then he sat back and grabbed the waist of John's jeans, pulling and yanking them down, his boxers coming along with them. Sherlock deposited them on the floor and stood up. He locked eyes with John, deliberately working at his own zipper and slowly removed what remained of his clothes. John licked his lips, his eyes roving over the expanse of bare skin, even as he felt the hot sweep of Sherlock's eyes over him.

Sherlock moved slowly, bracing his knees between John's, relishing the feel of skin on skin where their legs touched. Then he lowered himself down inch by agonizing inch. They melded together perfectly, the light pull of sweat slicked skin causing slight friction as Sherlock finally slotted himself between John's legs. John pulled his knees further apart to receive him, moaning when finally Sherlock's entire body was flush with his, flesh meeting flesh from head to toe. 

John's eyes pinching shut and head flung back with a gasp when Sherlock rolled his hips against him. His hands flew to Sherlock's hips, urging him to grind against John's arousal. Sherlock allowed himself to be guided, rolling his hips against John's over and over until John was gasping and shuddering beneath him. John's eyes rolled back as he rocked against Sherlock, hands flying to Sherlock's back and he dug his fingers in, leaving crescent shaped indentations. He moved without thought, taken over by desire and need. 

Sherlock suddenly stopped, pushing himself up and letting the cool air hit John's fevered skin.

“What-” John's eyes flashed to Sherlock's in question.  
“Do you want...” Sherlock answered, his voice raspy with want. He swallowed thickly as he gazed down at John. “What do you want?” 

John grinned, enamored by Sherlock's hesitancy.   
“I want you, any way I can get you.”

Sherlock's lips quirked up at the corner, and he leaned back down to kiss John once more.   
“Alright.”   
He got up and moved over to the nightstand, then pulled open the drawer and grabbed a bottle and gave it to John.   
“Have me. Any way you want me.” He laid down on the mattress, settling his hands behind his head and letting his legs fall slightly open, baring himself openly. 

John sat up and squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath.   
“You-” he shook his head lightly, then swallowed thickly before he met Sherlock's eyes again.   
“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Of course.”  
Sherlock reached up, and John rolled over to him. He got up onto his knees and braced himself over Sherlock, melting into his arms as the detective leaned up and caught him in another toe curling kiss.

John pulled back, huffing slightly, uncertainty plain on his face. 

Sherlock shook his head.   
“Relax, John. Don't over think it.”

John nodded minutely.   
“Alright,” he said, his voice much more calm than his thoughts.   
He struggled internally for a minute, before he did as Sherlock asked and told his brain to stop analyzing. He was a doctor after all, surely he could manage to do this without causing injury. He popped the lid to the little black bottle, then poured a copious amount of lubricant over his fingers. He reached down with shaking fingers and stroked his fingertips along Sherlock's opening. 

Sherlock's breath caught and he went completely still, locking eyes with John as the doctor's hands steadied and he slid a finger into Sherlock's body. He gave John a nod and bared down as the finger worked further into him.   
“Another,” he breathed, eager to get to the next part and finally have John inside him properly.

John slowly moved a second finger in to join his first, watching Sherlock's face for signs of discomfort. There seemed to be an understandable moment of adjustment, before Sherlock was pressing down against John's hand again, and John began moving his fingers in and out.

Sherlock let his head drop back onto the mattress, closed his eyes and groaned. His head snapped back up and he looked down at John impatiently.  
“That's good John. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so,” John answered somewhat breathlessly. He poured more lubricant into his palm, his hands shaking again slightly in anticipation. He smoothed his hand over his cock, groaning at the light touch. He took himself in hand and inched closer to Sherlock's waiting body. He rubbed the leaking head of his cock against Sherlock's opening and held his breath as he gently pressed the tip in. He froze for a moment, locking eyes with Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked back at John with dark, heavily lidded eyes. He wrapped his legs around John's waist and pulled him down. 

John stuttered out a surprised and satisfied shout as he fell on top of Sherlock, sliding in the rest of the way. John could feel Sherlock's responding moan rumble deep in his chest. 

John gasped and panted lightly, then lowered himself to rest his forehead against Sherlock's. He met those lust filled eyes, willing his breath to even out before he could focus enough to move.

John pushed back up a little and shifted his hips experimentally. It was as though someone had thrown fuel onto a flame. The hot desperation from before raced through John's veins at the way Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head. He rolled his hips, faster and harder, watching Sherlock come apart. He sat back and grabbed Sherlock's legs, pulling them up to drive in deeper. 

John slammed into Sherlock, picking up intensity and fucking the detective roughly into the mattress. His jaw dropped and he growled as Sherlock arched beneath him, a broken moan tearing from his throat. John slid an arm under Sherlock's leg, the back of Sherlock's knee hooking over the inside of John's elbow. He took his other hand and wrapped it around Sherlock's cock and stroked. He felt the length pulsing in his hand and his heart pounded in his ears.

“John!” Sherlock's voice sent John over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut and his mouth fell open, a strangled shout ripping from him as he pushed in deep, Sherlock's body tightening around him, hot and tight. 

John panted heavily. He dropped Sherlock's leg back down onto the mattress and fell forward, catching himself with his hands at the sides of Sherlock's head. John's shaky arms quickly gave out and he collapsed onto Sherlock's sweat kissed chest. He let his eyes fall closed, the steady beat of Sherlock's heart beneath his head bringing him down into a hazy lull of contentment. Strong arms wrapped around him, long fingered hands smoothed gently over his back and then Sherlock hugged him, his arms tightening around him. 

Sherlock buried his face into John's hair, laying kisses to the top of his head.

“I missed you, Sherlock,” John breathed.  
Sherlock grinned, letting his eyes fall closed. “I'm never leaving again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Unless of course you hated it, in which case I would rather not know. Smut is typically nerve wracking to post, and for some reason, this one is nearly as nerve wracking as the first smut scene I ever posted over a year ago. Be gentle with me


End file.
